


Antipathy

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Female Friendship, Frenemies, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah and Edith, in the spaces between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apparent

Sarah sat quietly, sipping her coffee, talking to no one, missing nothing. The entire downstairs was buzzing with the news, the scandal, the betrayal of them upstairs. Everyone was to be questioned, everyone was suspect until this thing was figured out, squashed down, hushed up. A tiny smile fluttered across her mouth, disappeared as fast as it had come. So them upstairs were finally paying the consequences for their actions. They were finally having to answer for their hypocritical choices, their bad judgments. How awful. Just  _terrible_.

Mr. Carson had been the one to share the news last week; hoping, she was sure, to put to rest any unnecessary embellishment or sensationalism that the footmen and kitchen girls were sure to add. Someone, and he had glared very pointedly at Sarah with that word,  _someone_  had been supplying the newspapers with information. Information of the indelicate sort, the shocking type. Apparently Lady Mary had been involved in something indiscreet. Sarah bit back another smile. If you could call having a man die in your bed, and you unmarried and the eldest daughter of the big house, an  _indiscretion_. Carson had no reason to glare at her; she'd heard nothing of it herself and wouldn't have went to a newspaper if she had. Wasn't her style.

She refilled her cup and gave Jimmy a cold look when he spoke to her, nattering on about how  _unfair_  it was that the Crawleys were suffering such humiliation. Unfair. A life of ultimate luxury, being waited on hand and foot, dripping in money and property and everything their selfish little hearts could desire. Yes, she could see just how unfair it all was. Her lips thinned and she bit back the words that sprang to her lips.  _Unfair_  was too many children and not enough to eat.  _Unfair_  was having to leave home at thirteen to go into service, to scrub and toil as a scullery maid under bad-tempered bitches in cold, hard kitchens.  _Unfair_  was seeing her family once a year, if that, because the precious Crawleys just couldn't do without the staff there to cook and clean and dress them and do all but wipe their bloody arses. Having to answer for your own shit choices while you wallowed in privilege? That was all right in her book, that was _just fine._

This morning Mrs. Hughes had informed them that yet another column had appeared in the paper, naming names and pointing fingers; this time, the paper had received intelligence that the family was on the skids, hemorrhaging money, letting cottages fall into disrepair while they dined on the best cuts of meat every night. Sarah was unsympathetic. From what she had seen through the grounds and village, there was truth to the story. Old Mrs. Patterson's place needed a new roof; several of the fields were overgrown and wasted due to lack of equipment to tend them. But had the Crawleys tightened the belt, went without a few of their abundant desires? Of course not. Cora had just returned from London recently with more shopping boxes than Sarah had ever seen in one place. She had been the one to open each of them, lift out the gowns, the shoes, the stoles. They'd be worn once, maybe twice, before being pushed to the back of the wardrobe and forgotten. Sarah was fond of Cora, in her way, a little anyway, but she was a vacuous woman, vain, shallow. Knew nothing of moderation. None of them did. The Lord and Lady were excessive, lavish, spoiled, and they had raised their daughters to be just like them.

So the skeletons were finally being dusted off and let to air. It was long overdue. A bit of humility wouldn't hurt them, a touch of embarrassment was just the ticket in her book.

But who? She did wonder about that. Sarah O'Brien knew everything that happened under the roof of Downton but she hadn't seen this one coming. She stirred her coffee idly, glanced at Mrs. Hughes sitting near the head of the table. She wondered if the housekeeper suspected, knew anything. If there was another who knew everything that went on, it was her, though for markedly different reasons. The older woman tried to know everything, see all the secrets, to prevent problems, smooth over issues. Sarah did it because forewarned was forearmed, and there are no friends in service, only those who would help you up just to push you back down. She had done well for herself without a lick of help from anyone; had done well  _despite_  some people, as a matter of fact. There hadn't been a few housemaids and kitchen girls who had tried to trip her up, slow her climb, but she had gotten past them. Secured her position as Cora's personal maid. She narrowed her eyes. If Mrs. Hughes did know something, she'd not be likely to share it with her.

Sarah slid her gaze around carefully, inspecting the faces that surrounded her. It was no one downstairs, it couldn't be. She had supposed Thomas for a moment, a second, but had discarded that theory just as fast. He would have come to her with it had he this type of ammunition; he still looked to her for guidance, for support. There was no else to put it on down here. The spoon stilled in her cup and she raised her eyes to the wall in front of her.

It wasn't anyone downstairs. It was someone  _upstairs_.

They didn't see what was right in front of their faces because they were too smug, too damned secure in their positions to ever suspect one of their own was unhappy. Sarah bit her lip, hard. They were looking for someone who hated them, competed with them, had some type of historical grudge with the bloodline.

They were so incredibly  _stupid_. Sarah knew, perhaps better than anyone there, that bitterness isn't bred that way. That type of coldness, that desolation of heart, is made through years of being ignored, belittled, pushed aside, overruled.

_Lost in the middle._

She could hold it back no longer and laughter bubbled from her throat and spilled over her lips. Mr. Carson glared down the table at her but she couldn't care at the moment, it was all just too incredibly  _funny_.

"Miss O'Brien, is there something amusing that the rest of us have missed?" His words were scathing, contemptuous.

She looked at him, pressed her mouth into an innocent smile.

"Nothing, Mr. Carson. Just a joke I heard recently. Nothing you'd care to hear." She widened her eyes a bit, flicked a curl out of her face with a toss of her head.

_Oh, milady, what a very bad girl you've been._


	2. Acrimony

Edith sat cramped against a steamer trunk, writing slowly, painfully, her brow knitted with effort and thought. It was ridiculous she had to be doing this, hidden away like a criminal, a stowaway, but, well. She didn't think too much further down that lane; down that particular sticky road were complications she didn't care to consider. Not right now. Not when this felt so horribly, darkly good, so vindicating, so  _just_. She had made excuses to her mother, made up stories, so and so about a rummage, a seconds sale for charity. Told her she'd be in the attic looking through old clothes, shoes. The best lie always started with a bit of truth, she knew, the best way to blind someone was by opening their eyes halfway. So now she sat, pouring out her bitterness,  _her_  truth, the bile in her burned heart onto this thin piece of cheap stationary.

_It is common knowledge that Lord Grantham has strayed from his marital bed... a number of chambermaids, scullery girls, and..._

She hesitated. Had been about to add "housekeepers" to that list, but omitted it at the last second. There were enough maids that names weren't needed, a vague suspicion would fall over all; but there was Mrs. Hughes, only Mrs. Hughes for so long, and Edith would not cast aspersions on any one of the servants. Not directly. And Mrs. Hughes had never done her wrong. She scratched at the paper, corrected some words.

_It is common knowledge that Lord Grantham has strayed from his marital bed a number of times... various chambermaids and scullery girls have fallen victim to his..._

Edith looked up, cast about for the right word. Her eyes were unfocused, swollen, and unbeknownst ( _almost_ ) to her, glassy with unshed tears. She didn't want to go too far, never wanted anyone to think that PaPa would, well, take a woman's virtue against her will -- he had to be punished but he was still --  _no_. Her teeth clenched together. She would not think about him, about them; they never thought about her, unless it was to dismiss her, belittle her, laugh at her feeble attempts at independence, at love.

_...his powerful advances... only to find themselves entangled with a man who would use them and dismi..._

Tears began sliding.

_...dismiss them without a second thought..._

She cried, of course; she always cried when writing these things, these poisons, these sharpened knives, and hated herself for it. All she wanted was coldness, for a freezing blanket to settle around her heart, her mind, her body, a coat of ice that would keep her safe from the hurtful words, the forgetting, the discomfort.  _Poor Edith, the spinster, the ugly duckling, the middle child, the late bloomer, the maiden aunt_. Not the headstrong oldest nor the cherished baby, just the one in the way, the one that was added last-minute to the invitations, the Christmas lists, the season books.

The steps creaked and she looked up in a panic, began folding her paper with shaking fingers into a tiny square. Shoved it down the front of her corset, tucked it hard beneath one of her small breasts, where it lay scratching and cutting near her heart. She rose onto her knees, turned to the open trunk, crammed the pen and ink bottle down into a corner, pulling some old scarves and wraps over it. Just in time,  _just_.

"Milady?"

It was O'Brien, of all people. Edith looked around the open lid at the maid, standing there coolly in her black dress, her lace collar. What on earth was O'Brien doing up here? MaMa must have sent her looking, they must want something done. _What is it now? An ugly guest? A small child? A charity bake?_  That's all they ever sought her out for -- deeds that no one else saw fit to do, undesirable but necessary functions, pleasant but unprepossessing dinner guests. The dregs, the leftovers, the second thoughts.

"Yes, O'Brien? I'm just going through these old things of ours; there's so much here that could be sold in the shops. All of it perfectly good, still."

O'Brien simply looked at her, her face opaque and remote as always. Edith had known the woman for years and yet none of them really knew her, she thought. She said so little to them; mostly, she listened. Listened silently to MaMa's endless chatter and Mary's drawled complaints and Sibyl's political ideas while they all sat sprawled around Cora's enormous dressing table. Never offering an opinion, never agreeing or disagreeing or laughing, even. Just endlessly doing up hair and fastening necklaces and pulling corset ties and answering when directly asked with _yes, milady_  and  _no, milady_  and  _I'm not sure about that, milady._

"I thought perhaps you might need assistance to bring things down; there's so many steps."

Edith shook her head, closed the trunk with a loud snap, rose from her kneeling position. She brushed her dress off, careful to avoid the woman's eyes.

"No, I can't decide. And the light is so dim up here. I'll do it another day. After all, none of it's exactly going anywhere, is it?"

Small smile and she left the attic, O'Brien following her steps down to the second floor.  _It's fine_ , she told her hammering heart.  _She didn't see anything, and even if she did, I was writing a letter to an old school friend._

O'Brien had seen nothing,  _couldn't_  have, but all the same -- Edith felt watchful eyes upon her.


	3. Aptitude

Sarah carefully sponged the gown she was pressing, straightened the wrinkles, the seams, dabbing at marks. It was lovely, she thought, a particularly pretty shade of dark blue that had highlighted Cora's dark hair and eyes. A beautiful garment, yes, but look at the shape of it now -- a wine stain on the sleeve, a hemline stitch torn. This is how her Ladyship was, though, careless and thoughtless and taking it all for granted. She shrugged a little to herself. Wasn't her money, her clothes. Little bitch could appear in rags for all she cared. Sarah sighed. Not really. There was a lot of pride in seeing Cora perfectly coiffed, dressed, made up; the Countess was her ongoing project, her magnum opus, and she'd no more let this dress keep a stain or a rip than, well, anything.

The iron was sizzling and ready for use. She sprinkled the gown again and began to smooth the tip of the iron over the treated areas. As she worked, she thought about her run-in with Edith the day before. The girl had been sequestered in the far attic, cramped down behind dusty trunks and dressforms. Claimed to be going through old clothes, but Sarah knew better. There had been no piles, no stacks, nothing at all to show that she had been sorting. Her brow creased as she carefully worked on the garment. She had expected to feel a certain nasty glee in ( _almost_ ) catching Edith in the act, but instead she had felt vaguely sorry for her, oddly sympathetic. The girl was the least of the sisters -- the least pretty, the least considered, the least spoiled. Sarah made a small sound of disgust. If it had been Mary, it would have made her morning to see the tearstains, the trembling hands.

The stain was beginning to lift, fade from the fragile cloth. Now she just had to baste up the hem, freshen the dress, and rehang it. She glanced at the clock. If she worked quickly, there'd be time to slip out back for a cigarette. If she worked quickly enough, she'd even be able to avoid one of Mr. Carson's endless lectures about the appropriate habits of a lady's maid. Sarah flicked her eyes toward heaven. Because it was somehow his concern what she did on her own time. She laid the iron aside, searched through her sewing basket for the appropriate color of thread. Downstairs was still roiling with the gossip, and not a single person besides herself had the brains to work out who was spilling the dirt. She had even overheard someone suspecting Mr. Carson! For god's sake,  _Mr. Carson_. The man worshiped the ground that ridiculous family walked on. He'd no more give up their ghosts than let her smoke in peace.

Sarah was troubled. She had thought at first that it was fun to have something on Edith, useful, but she couldn't find the heart to use it. She had been there for so many years, she had seen how Edith was overlooked and pushed aside. How many times had the girls laid around in Cora's suite, Mary dominating the conversation, Sybil arguing with spirit, but Edith not even being acknowledged? Hovering on the edges. As she got older, her visits to her mother's rooms became briefer, less frequent. Who could blame the child? If anyone understood operating on the outskirts, the fringes, it was Sarah O'Brien. She had never been properly accepted into the downstairs, not really. Mrs. Hughes was generally polite to her, yes, but she was to everyone, really. It was how she got on, how she kept a firm hold on the maids. The butler couldn't stand her, barely veiled his contempt from day one. The other maids never sought her company, actively avoided her.

Not that she cared, not really. It was an easier life, truth be told, not having to forge hypocritical friendships with girls and women who envied her position, secretly wished to displace her. The footmen generally liked her well enough, which was helpful; it meant she never had to add coal to a fire or clean her own shoes, at least. But it wasn't the same as family, or friendship. There was simply none of that to be had downstairs, and she suspected that Edith found little of it upstairs. Some people just didn't  _fit_. If Edith were writing those letters, supplying that column with the damning intelligence -- and Sarah was positive she was, it all rang true - then, well. Good on her, really. Good on her for getting some of her own back. Sometimes you had to be that way, sometimes you had to be the whisper in the dark to make yourself heard at all.

With neat, even stitches, she replaced the hem to its former clean line, ran the finishing stitch beneath the others for a secure mend. In a way, she wished she could tell Edith that she knew, wished that it was a secret they could share, the two of them - the odd ones out, the two extras, the strange leftovers. She shrugged again (shrugging was one of Sarah's default responses, it was the only answer to most things in this strange house); it was a ludicrous thought, she knew. There was no friendship between upstairs and down, no real affection or trust or understanding. Edith would simply have to go it alone, as she had done all these years. You got on, you learned not to mind it so much. You learned who was important and who was not, who was in the way and who could be tolerated. The girl would have to learn some subtlety, though, and soon... the circle would close around her if she kept going at this outrageous rate.

The maid smiled a little. Someone needed to teach Edith the fundamental rule of getting your own back, the various methods of playing out a rope -- how to add the right poison in the right amounts.


End file.
